Between Love and Lies

by Jacqui Nelson

  She edged back in her seat.

  “Hey!” The cowhand sitting next to her slapped his cards on the table, making the chips rattle. “You ain’t leavin’, are you? You haven’t answered my question.” He jumped out of his chair. His damp hair stuck out at all angles like a rooster with its feathers ruffled. “Have you even heard a word I been sayin’?”

  She struggled to guess what he might have asked.

  The cowhand’s face darkened with a flush of annoyance. “You think yer too good to talk to likes of me.” He yanked her out of her chair and up against his side. “Well, I’ve five dollars that says yer mine for ten minutes, same as any whore in this here room.”

  Her gasp of surprise and then pain, as his grip tightened on her arm, was drowned out by the screech of a chair being shoved back. Mr. Ballantyne had launched to his feet. The card table between them pitched violently. The chips scattered and struck the floor with the clatter of a rockslide.

  Gertie bellowed Handsome John’s name. An instant later he stood by his employer’s side. He didn’t stay there long. The Northern Star’s peacekeeper pressed forward, looming over her unwelcome suitor, who had yet to release her arm. John was anything but handsome, having come out the other side of a knife fight the hands-down loser, but Sadie welcomed the sight of him.

  Another shadow fell over her. Gaze riveted on the cowhand’s grasp on her arm, Mr. Ballantyne towered over her, like a storm cloud ready to descend. His eyes had lost all warmth. The change chilled her to the bone.

  She didn’t want to see him or John get hurt. Only Gertie deserved that level of retribution.

  Fixing her attention on the cowhand, she said, “You have misinterpreted the situation, Mr.…”

  “Miller. See! You can’t even remember my name.”

  “Mr. Miller, let me assure you that it is I who is not good enough for you.” She’d spoken as politely as she could, trying to keep her voice calm despite his fingers digging into her arm. Hold steady, she told herself. Don’t panic. As when soothing a wild animal, one must keep them from sensing your fear.

  Mr. Ballantyne took a step closer to her, robbing her of logical thought and whatever words she might have uttered next.

  John moved in on Miller. “You’re new in town and wet around the ears in more than one way. You don’t want this lady. Pick another. One without—” his gaze cut to her before locking on Miller again, “—Cupid’s Disease. In case yer still confused, I’ll put it plainly. You dally with her, you get syphilis.”

  Mr. Ballantyne flinched as if he’d been slapped, while at the same time Miller dropped her arm faster than a coyote learning a porcupine has quills.

  “The French pox?” Miller’s words broke the bubble of silence that had briefly cocooned her.

  She fought the urge to lay a protective hand over her aching arm. Feeling as if everyone’s gazes bored into her, her skin prickled then flushed with heat. What was Mr. Ballantyne thinking?

  An increasingly familiar sickness tormented the pit of her stomach. Then her gut heaved. Dread made her abandon all pretenses. She wrapped her arms around her abdomen. But what alarmed her most was the sudden impulse to deny that she had the disease.

  In the past, she’d embraced every opportunity to maintain the illusion of her illness—to the point where she really had become sick. Just not in the way everyone assumed. The medicine the doctor prescribed was making her ill, giving her symptoms that mimicked the pox. The doctor didn’t know that, and she couldn’t tell him. Not if she wanted to maintain the lie that she had syphilis.

  Her lies were all that stood between her and a life of prostitution. It was too late to chart a new course.

  Miller’s face wrinkled in disgust as he scrubbed his palm over the front of his shirt. “What good’s a whore you can’t bed?”

  John shoved Miller back into his seat. “Would you rather look at me all night while I dealt your cards?” John placed a hand on either side of the chair and leaned over the man. Unforgiving white scars crisscrossed John’s face.

  “Point taken,” Miller grunted and picked up his cards.

  As John left, Sadie’s stomach dropped back into place. She sat down with a similar swiftness, not trusting her legs to hold her up. She dared a glance in Mr. Ballantyne’s direction. He didn’t say a word but sat as well, his attention on the card table—a location that had held no interest until he’d been told she was ill.

  A profound sadness squeezed her heart.

  Miller laughed, his ruffled feathers soothed. “Having you deal my cards beats looking at squirrel-tooth Alice across the street at the Crystal Palace, too.” He leered at her with a grin that showed several missing teeth.

  Jarring piano music abused her ears and her heart. A cruel reminder that Edward should’ve been here playing the instrument like he’d done whenever he needed to revive himself during lengthy gambling matches.

  Sadie met Miller’s gaze and refused to look away. She must face each challenge until she came to the one that mattered most. She’d honor her promise to retrieve what Gertie had stolen from Edward. And in doing so she’d be free. Free to leave Dodge. Free to go far away where she could then worry about her health and her future.

  She gathered the cards that lay scattered across the table. Life had dealt her a losing hand, but she was making the best of it. Only two people knew her secret. One was in the grave; the other had vanished. With them had gone the truth—she was a whore in name only. The assumption that she had syphilis, a card she played daily, ensured she stayed that way.

  “We all make do with what we have, sir,” she replied as sweetly as she could, leaning toward Miller as if she considered him the most fascinating man in the room, and proceeded to deal him his own losing hand.

  * * *

  Noah stared at his cards, seeing none of them.

  Merciful Mother of God, that was why Sadie looked so drawn, so pale, so fragile. She was sick, and not with just any illness. He didn’t know much about the French pox, but he knew she could go blind or insane. She could die. He’d heard that some even ended their lives by their own hand, too overwhelmed by the stigma of their condition to continue living.

  Noah’s lungs seized, his guilt pressing down on him from all sides. He was to blame. First Sadie had lost her farm, then her innocence when she came to work in this saloon. And now she battled a disease that could end the one thing she had left—her life.

  Shame filled him, but he forced himself to look at her. He was certain he’d find hatred etched onto her face. Instead, she sat serenely across from him, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She should’ve been railing at her fate, at him. She must despise him. How could she not?

  He remembered the spitfire he’d met a year ago. She’d launched herself at him with fists and ferocity, and rightfully so. Tonight she’d barely graced him with a glance. Perversely, he wished she would yell at him again, accuse him of being responsible for her situation. Anything to ease the remorse that drilled into his soul with the grim determination of a longhorn tick.

  He continued playing without interest, lasting two more hands before he folded, rose and excused himself from the game. His feet refused to move, though. Sadie’s red curls enticed him. The curve of her neck begged to be touched. So did the freckles scattered across her cheeks. He reached out, then drew back. She’d suffered enough. The last thing she needed was the unwanted attentions of another man.

  He retreated to the bar. Choosing a spot with an unobstructed view of Sadie’s table, he slouched on crossed arms over its worn surface and fixed his gaze on the woman he’d ruined.

  A thump shook the counter. Gritting his teeth, he straightened his shoulders and turned, finding the mammoth barkeep who’d served him last time before kicking Miller into line.

  The giant inclined his shaggy head toward a bottle of red-eye he’d deposited in front of Noah. “From the looks of you, you’ll be wantin’ me to leave the bottle again.”

  The whiskey was welcome; anything
else was not. He wanted to be alone to think. Praying the man would leave, he poured himself a glass. The amber liquid was halfway to his lips when the barman’s words stopped him.

  “That be a cryin’ shame,” he said, thrusting his chin in Sadie’s direction. “How she came to town lookin’ for work, ended up here, and then got sick. Not five months in Madam Garrett’s employ, and she comes down with the pox. Now she’s off limits as an upstairs girl, but downstairs she’s a gem.” He sighed and turned his attention to polishing a row of glasses behind the bar. “Edward taught her well. You won’t find a quicker hand with the cards.”

  Noah fought the urge to haul him over the bar and lay into him. A moment ago, he’d barely restrained himself from smashing his fist into Miller’s face. Now he wished he hadn’t. The barkeep had been helpful in preventing any bloodshed, but the reminder of Sadie’s downfall made him writhe with equal parts rage and remorse. He wanted to punch someone. He needed to strike out at something, desperate to right a wrong that couldn’t be fixed.

  The saloon was too loud, its walls too close. The open range called to him. The compulsion to run flayed his nerves, screamed for him to leave. He couldn’t stay here; he didn’t have the strength to face his mistakes. And he was a fool to hope he could mend them. He should head for Texas right now and never look back.

  But he remained rooted to his chair, his gaze locked on Sadie.

  She held him stronger than any guilt or fear. His pulse slowed, allowing a sliver of his old determination to dig in.

  He would not abandon her again. He’d figure out a way to help her…to free her from this life. The wariness he’d seen in her eyes, heard in her voice, sensed in her every move—despite her best efforts to conceal it—troubled him. He had to gain her trust. A trust he didn’t deserve.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next day the sun was high overhead as Sadie guided Gertie’s fancy rig and palomino mare toward the cemetery southeast of Dodge. A sudden desire to use the horse and buggy to go even farther flared. She tamped it down.

  The first time she’d tried to flee Dodge, Handsome John had easily found her. His two-tailed leather strap had stung like a horde of irate hornets. It taught a lesson while allowing a girl to return to work. She was dead certain she never wanted to feel its bite again. Nor did she want to live her life on the run, always looking over her shoulder.

  But what really held her in Dodge was her vow to Edward. No matter his original motives, he’d been her salvation after John caught her and brought her back to the Gertie. She couldn’t ignore that debt. And now as long as the patrons shied away from her because of her distasteful history, she had no need to run. What she needed was more chances to finish searching the Star for all that Gertie had stolen.

  She was safe. An uncertain safe, though. Too many things could go wrong, like her dwindling health.

  “Think of something positive,” she muttered to herself.

  The mare’s hooves made a comforting thump every time they found the earth, while the harness rattled, adding a merry jingle. Although she enjoyed driving such a fine horse and buggy, she longed for the days when she could saddle a mount and ride. Unfortunately, dizzy spells made staying seated an uncertain venture.

  The soft spring air soothed the slight fever prickling her skin. She closed her eyes, savoring its caress. From a corner of her heart, memories of her old life tugged at her. A snug house standing on the very earth it was hewn from, the wind skimming the open prairie like a giant hand bending the buffalo grass so the blades flattened and sprang back with a rustling sigh. Her farm and its peaceful seclusion called to her.

  Shaking her head, she strove to cast out her yearning. That part of her life was gone, as incapable of resurrection as those buried in the graveyard before her. She jerked the buggy to a halt, set the brake and jumped to the ground. Her haste caused the warmth simmering beneath her skin to erupt in a wave of burning heat.

  Her pulse pounded and her vision blurred. She latched onto the buggy wheel to keep from falling. So much for the hope that this excursion, and a bit of fresh air, might help rally her strength.

  She needed help, but she couldn’t depend on anyone but herself.

  Even Edward, with whom she’d developed a fast friendship, hadn’t held her best interests at heart when he bought her from Gertie. He’d needed Sadie to fill a missing role in his life. And she’d missed her one true opportunity to escape.

  Foolish woman, she chided herself. You traded freedom for the need to feel wanted.

  The memory of Mr. Ballantyne standing close beside her invaded her thoughts. His attention made her feel wanted. When they’d first met, he’d said he wanted to help her. But his version had been to give money and disappear. She swayed and clutched the wheel with both hands.

  Had he already headed home to Texas? Had he left her again?

  With her pulse now roaring in her ears, she fought not to collapse. Although she might welcome the opportunity to slumber here among the dead, rather than return to the saloon and match wits with the living.

  After a while her headache faded and her vision cleared.

  The cemetery sprawled around her, a field of haphazardly planted graves. Their headstones represented a mishmash of lives and loved ones: sizable boards with round-cut tops and effusive epitaphs; simple crosses of whitewashed wood etched with a name and date; a few markers created from whatever was at hand—scraps of wood tied together with rope, cloth and even belts. White asters and daisies blanketed the ground, their blossoms overlapping until she couldn’t tell where one flower began and another ended.

  She released the buggy wheel. She strode by the graves with her gaze fixed on the only one that mattered. She’d come to visit her mother. Nothing else was worthy of her time. But the useless compulsion to lash out a dead man slammed her to a halt beside father’s final resting place.

  Damn you. Damn me as well. Why had she tried so hard to prove her worth to him? She’d worked their farm from sunup to sunset. She’d cleaned and cooked and had his meals on the table like clockwork. She’d strove to do everything as well as her mother. Why weren’t either of us good enough to earn your love?

  Her only answer was a sudden clatter behind her—hooves on rock and sod, claiming purchase up the rise. A dappled gray galloped toward her with a tireless stride. The long-legged cowboy riding the horse looked equally at ease.

  Damn him as well.

  Her curses went unheeded. Noah Ballantyne pulled his mount to a halt next to her buggy. He dismounted with effortless grace, not a hint of weakness about him. Their differences riddled her determination with the persistence of a tick.

  Always it amazed her how a creature as tiny as a tick could be so strong, so relentless. She’d do well to find a way to be just as unstoppable.

  She studied the man who’d moved to stand within an arm’s reach of her.

  Deep lines framed his mouth and dark smudges underscored his eyes, but his mood remained a mystery as he assessed her as well. His gaze traveled from the teardrop-shaped boat hat perched on her head down to the delicate front-laced boots below the ruffled hem of her dress. The skirt displayed an immodest portion of her stockinged calves, while the hat was so tiny it offered scant protection from the glaring sun. All perfect for suggesting a profession she was trying hard to maintain.

  She forced herself not to squirm under his perusal. Finally, his gaze moved to the graveyard and froze on her father’s headstone. He tugged his weather-beaten Stetson from his head.

  “Didn’t know your father passed.” A long silence elapsed before he spoke again. “I’m sorry, Miss Sullivan.”

  His hushed tone made her think he was sorry for a heck of a lot more. But he didn’t share his thoughts with her. He just kept frowning at her father’s grave.

  She swallowed the urge to yell at him like she’d done on her farm. Dredging up her sweetest tone, she said, “Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Ballantyne. My father wasn’t worthy of anyone’s condolences.”

>   His gaze jumped back to her and narrowed even further. “Then why are you here?”

  “To say a final goodbye to my mother.” She immediately wished she could take back the words. Talking to him about her father was one thing, but her mother?

  Feeling the need to put some distance between them, she hastened through the graves to a plain headstone with the words: Margaret Sullivan. Loving mother, devoted wife.

  Gone seven years now, her mother had died from a lung fever after they’d traveled from Virginia to Kansas. A journey her mother had made only after her husband forced her to put his need to escape his creditors ahead of her health. A wave of sorrow swept over Sadie—for being separated from her mother, for knowing she’d never be with her again. Not even in death.

  Her soul was tainted. She’d be buried in the other cemetery—the one for the immoral, the outcasts who died violently with their boots on. If her life ended, her bones would reside in Boot Hill.

  Death stalked her. Time was running out. This was the last time she could afford to visit her mother. Dropping to her knees by the grave, she removed the weeds and smoothed the dirt into a tidy swell. She hadn’t heard Noah follow her, but she knew he was beside her. The scent of soap and leather, infused with spring air and sweet grass, curled around her. The soulless oppression of Dodge seemed a thousand miles away.

  Glancing up at him, she whispered, “She was worth a hundred of his kind.” Her shoulders slumped. Why had she told him that? Only friends shared such truths. And he was no friend of hers. Was she losing her mind as well as her health?

  Brows drawn over unblinking eyes, he held her gaze. “The money I gave your father—what happened to it?”

  Her chin went up and with it came a terse laugh. She clenched her teeth. Don’t let him control you. Stop jumping at his every word and glance. Or he’ll have you swooning at his feet and revealing all your secrets.

  Rounding up her jumbled emotions, she composed her face into what she hoped was an aloof expression. “Is that why you returned to Dodge? For your money? Well, it’s long gone. My father was a gambling man. Your money vanished in a week which is longer than I thought it’d last.”